the mind's a minefield
by Sorde
Summary: Since its release by Roark Instruments in 2000, everyone has an Intersect... except for Chuck Bartowski. Chuck/Sarah, AU
1. Intersect Introduced

This is one of those rare stories that break both of my two (sort-of-)rules: no AU, and no multi-chapter. And those rules aren't in place because I hate those kinds of stories - most of my favourites fit into those categories - but because I always really struggle to write them. But what was fun about this idea is that it got stuck in my head a few weeks ago, and I started writing, and then - voilà! Chapter one is finished. So I hope you guys enjoy.

I'm in exams now, though, and what I _should_ have been doing instead of writing this is studying for the Calc exam tomorrow... But procrastinate today, right? Don't leave it until tomorrow.

(This is why, if anyone's curious, I love Ellen Degeneres.)

But essentially, updates are going to be a little slow starting out, considering my free time is next to nil right now (or, it would be, if I was actually doing what I'm supposed to be doing). Just forewarning. But I'll be trying to update as much as possible.

All mistakes are mine; I'm still looking around for that beta, so for now, I'm self-editing.

**Disclaimer: **Don't own Chuck. Still wish I did, though. Title/lyric credit goes to Admiral Fallows' "Squealing Pigs_"._

* * *

><p><em>Make a cup with your hands to take a drink.<em>

**SEPTEMBER 14TH, 2007  
><strong>**10:07 AM  
><strong>  
>"Bartowski!"<p>

With a groan, Chuck buried his face in the stack of papers before him. He knew _that _"Bartowski!" and that "Bartowski!' indicated the soon-to-be-presence of his loud, mildly intimidating boss. The man obviously knew exactly how to choose the worst possible time, as the files before him were piled so high that even if Chuck wanted to procrastinate and fool around on the computer for a while, he couldn't even see the monitor.

For a guy who made his living working on the aforementioned computer - one of six scattered throughout the office - his disrespect to it seemed kind of sacrilegious.

He turned his face to the door.

And, right on cue, the Director of the CIA walked into Chuck's office, four slightly shorter, tuxedo-clad men in pursuit.

Politeness and respect for his superiors consistently ingrained in him, Chuck hopped to his feet... and ran his knee into his desk before him at the same time. With a quick hiss of breath and Graham's unimpressed (and unsurprised) "Get yourself together, Bartowski," he shot his left hand out, leaning over and grabbing his knee with his right.

"Director Graham, sir," Chuck wheezed, after he realized his error and switched hands so the right-handed Director could shake without any more confusion than Chuck had already caused. Finally, he straightened. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Chuck's one-person office was barely big enough to fit the two-by-four desk, a single filing cabinet, and Chuck himself, but he finally managed to move around enough to offer the Director one of the spare camping chairs he kept in the far corner of the room for the other visitors. Although the Director had visited the office on more than one occasion, and had, in fact, sat in that very camping chair as though as he actually owned it, he still gave it a slight grimace before sitting down.

Brown eyes burned into Chuck's as he stood awkwardly. "We're going to have to upgrade your office, I see," Graham finally said, after a prolonged silence.

At that, Chuck shrugged, sitting down in his own plastic office chair. The four men hovered in the door for a moment, glancing at Graham, until the affirmative head nod came from his direction and they retreated, closing the door behind them. Chuck suspected - based on movies, naturally - that they remained outside the door, hovering. "It's comfortable."

The Director eyed him for a moment, glancing at his computer suspiciously. He was a tall man, almost imposing, sharp brown eyes taking in his surroundings. According to his file (and Chuck had memorized most files), he'd been a corporal in the army before his recruitment to the CIA, and his stance portrayed just that: rigid back, arms tucked at the sides, impeccable posture.

He ruined it, though, by leaning forward a little, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together. "_Are_ you comfortable, Bartowski?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Chuck had read, once, that this was a method of interrogation: keep your voice low, and people have to strain to listen. Bam, focus on the words maintained.

The question surprised Chuck and he opened his mouth a little before answering, mulling over his words. "Comfortable is a... debatable question, sir." And then, as was the norm, the floods opened: "Are we talking comfortable job-wise, because that's... no problems there, sir. Socially, I mean, there've been some incidents in the last five years or so that may be _perceived_ as less than comfortable, but you know, perceptions, and all that jazz. And _physically_, well, I've been more comfortable, but my mattress is kicking out, so that's bound to-"

Even after a solid five years of adjusting to Chuck Bartowski's full-on babble, Graham raised his right hand to his forehead and rubbed at it, closing his eyes in frustration. Chuck - who kept talking, despite his observations - could almost see him counting to ten in his head. "Agent Bartowski!" he finally interrupted.

Chuck promptly shut up.

The Director took his time finding the words, and Chuck suspected that there was more to this meeting than just recon. "You've been here four years, and that's more than most agents can say."

Chuck mumbled something that sounded distinctly like "Most agents actually leave their six-by-eight office," but it was quiet enough to earn him nothing more than a sharp glare.

"Your work with Intersects has been impeccable, Bartowski, but the budget's getting tight and the..." For a second, Graham grappled at attempting to find the word he was looking for, and finally settled on, "Problems?" before Chuck chimed in with a helpful:

"Glitches." At Graham's raised eyebrow, he clarified: "That's the word the boys in IT and I settled on, considering Intersects are kind of like compu- You know what? Not important."

Graham scowled irritably. "The _glitches_, then, they're getting out of hand. Half of our best agents are out of the field and in the psych unit for clairvoyant dreams and severe neurological trauma. The rest are pretending that there's no pain going on, but they're effing up their missions when they can't flash without... whatever the hell goes on." The rigid posture returned. "Fact remains that as the son of the creator of the original Intersect, you're the only one qualified to stop all this..." He cleared his throat. "Stuff."

"Sir, I'm doing the best I can-"

"And you're doing a damn good job. But _everyone's_ got an Intersect, Bartowski - it's the Walkman of the 21st century - and only the CIA's best are showing up in the psych ward of the hospital."

"It's a problem with the programming, there's too much information going in. We'd have to rework the system, figure out how to remove the two-points-ohs and input an entire new coding database-"

Graham did not appear to be listening anymore. He stood, a grand 6' 5" at his full height, and stuck out an uncomfortable hand to carefully (and in what Chuck supposed was intended to be a playful manner) punch Chuck's shoulder. "CIA's best and brightest - and I mean it, Bartowski, best of the best - is showing up in your office this afternoon. You fix her."

"There's a list of agents already in the psych ward to go throu-"

"Fix Agent Walker. Use her as a prototype, rework the system, make her out to be a guinea pig. I don't out what the hell is going on with Intersects these last few months. All CIA resources are at your beck and call." A pause, and then: "And, for the love of God, get the 2.0 fixed before Roark Instruments offers its worldwide release in January."

And then, in classic CIA fashion, he yanked down his sunglasses and left the room.

**SEPTEMBER 14TH, 2007**  
><strong>1:09 PM<strong>

Chuck's fingers skimmed across the keyboard. Agent Walker's file was on the screen, a basic list of aliases, birthdays used, missions attended, some of her basic traits and what she was best trained in. He recognized the name, of course - she'd been Bryce's partner for the last two years - but her accomplishments were _astronomical. _'CIA's best of the best' didn't even begin to describe her.

He was sitting there debating whether her stats made her more comparable to Agent 99, or to Sidney Bristow, when there was a knock on the door. For a second, he considered looking up - it couldn't be anyone of high status, they all announced themselves with a loud "Bartowski!" halfway down the hall - but he recognized the voice that greeted him.

"Hey, Chuck." Bryce Larkin's suave voice drifted through the office, smooth and deep. If he wasn't Chuck's best friend, Chuck'd have to hate him for the voice alone. Of course, the appearance and the actual-agent status could have still done it.

"Hey." He kept his eyes glued to the screen for a fraction of a second longer before closing the file. He looked up to see Bryce leaning casually against the doorway... and a very _feminine _presence standing to his left.

Not just feminine: _beautiful. _Bryce's perfect female counterpart, it looked like - long blond hair, bright blue eyes, high cheekbones, the whole shebang. Her facial expression, though - she didn't look mad, exactly, but there was an outline of annoyance within the politely-pleased-to-be-here façade she was trying to portray.

Realizing that he was probably staring, he was on his feet again in one swift move, thankfully without the bruised knee. Ignoring Bryce momentarily, he crossed the room and stuck out a hand to what he assumed was- "Agent Walker. I wasn't expecting you guys for at least another- You know what? It's all good, I was just, uh, just going over your file, it's really impressive, sort of an Yori-Sarah Connor hybrid, with some Lara Cro-" He cleared his throat. "Now would be a good time to rewind five minutes. Anyone have a phone booth handy?"

Ignoring the tail end of Chuck's entire conversation with himself, Agent Walker grasped his hand in a firm handshake (_firm _may have been a little lenient; Chuck cringed) and said, "There's nothing wrong with me, Agent Bartowski, so I can assure you, this will be quick."

When his hand was finally released, Chuck glanced sideways (well, after shaking out his hand subtly) at Bryce for confirmation. Bryce rolled his eyes as her.

"Sarah, you passed out on a mission." He cleared his throat and added, smirking slightly, "While you had your foot against the count's throat."

She glared at him, and Chuck had the sudden impression that he was in Siberia; he shivered involuntarily. "Dehydration," she spat.

"You can't flash without looking like someone punched you in the stomach."

The glare intensified. "Gee, Bryce, maybe that's because I'm flashing _while someone punches me in the stomach._"

While Chuck himself would have been crying a little bit if anyone - let alone a beautiful CIA agent - looked at him that way, Bryce seemed more amused than fazed. "You don't sleep."

"I slashed someone's throat with a pencil last week, and then used that pencil to write out a suicide letter. I'm allowed to have nightmares." Her eyes flashed dangerously. "And if you keep talking, I'll see what I can do to _you_that'll give me the same kinds of nightmares."

Bryce opened his mouth to retort again, but she whirled around to look at Chuck, fists balled at her sides. "If you want to continue this meeting, Agent Bartowski, I would appreciate it if you would kick Bryce Larkin here out."

And while Chuck had a feeling he'd be safer with Bryce in the room, he shot his friend a pleading look - a combination of both _please don't leave_ and _good lord, man, I want to live, and it's probably a bad idea for you to be murdered on government soil, so go do something that's not here._

Bryce interpreted the second half, it would appear, because his smirk finally fell a fraction before returning to life. "I'll just be getting myself some coffee, then. Good luck, Chuck."

He slapped Chuck on the back, looking amused. _Good luck_ suddenly seemed like something actually necessary to be said, and Chuck was not a believer in luck.

He watched - a little fearfully - as Bryce turned around and walked away.

**SEPTEMBER 14TH, 2007  
>1:31 PM<strong>

Once Bryce's footsteps had slowly disappeared down the hallway, Chuck closed the door to his office, gulping down his momentary fear and walking around Agent Walker to grab her one of the camp chairs. When he turned back around, there was an excited, challenging look in her eye that told him he was about to emasculated in some way.

He raised one leg slowly, bracing himself to hop into the Morgan, but Agent Walker surprised him by sitting obediently in the chair with a polite "Thank you," her eyes still wild and excited.

Things had just gone into uncomfortable territory. "So, Agent Walker, is there-" he started, but the blond interrupted him as soon as his mouth opened.

"I want you to remove my Intersect." Then, like her mouth was moving faster than her brain (a sentiment Chuck, of all people, understood): "And you can call me Sarah."

And while Chuck had never been all that socially capable, his voice - or rather, his babbling - had never failed him before. But he genuinely couldn't think of anything to say to that. Instead, a rather unfortunate, guttural noise escaped his throat.

She didn't look perplexed; on the contrary, the excitement in her face only grew. "I need you to remove my Intersect, just like you removed yours, Agent Bartowski."

The noise stopped. Of their own volition, the words, "Chuck. Call me Chuck," escaped his throat, before his mind decided to actually contribute to the conversation and say, "Wait, _what_?"

"_Chuck_," she stressed, yanking out the one-syllable word into six or seven, a feat he deemed oddly sexy, considering it was something he used to do when his mom wouldn't buy him the Obi Wan Kenobi action figure. Her fingers played anxiously over her knees, blond hair falling over her shoulders. "You don't have an Intersect, do you?"

The fact was, while Chuck may have been tempted to be honest with her, she was a spy. She'd tell Graham. Then again, she'd notice him lying.

To be fair, working with a Class Two project without an Intersect wasn't _technically _illegal. Admittedly, he'd been hired on the basis that his Intersect was a two-point-oh with little to no problems, allowing him 'round the clock protection, and was capable of retaining information like nobody's business. And contained in-depth information on the workings of the Intersect.

Which had been true at the time. For the most part.

Okay, so he'd been lying a lot since the job had been offered, but his reason were valid. Chuck had never been one to lie unless, say, three hundred million people were in danger if he didn't. And if he told the truth, he'd be fired - which, considering the information he knew, would mean either bunker, or straight-up death. Sometimes working for the CIA sucked; he'd almost rather he still work at the Buy More.

His mouth, ever the accomplice, chimed in to overdrive before Chuck's brain could contribute to anything (or, at the bare minimum, come up with a way to _not_ appear too obvious).

"I- wuh? That's- Intersect is way up there, hanging out, chilling with the best of them, you know, mulling over details and being awesome and intersecting info - hey, that must be where the name comes from! Of course it is, I already knew that, Dad made the original. Did I tell you that- huh?" He cleared his throat slowly, deliberately, choosing his next words carefully. His hand flew behind the desk in the least subtle way possible, grasping for his white-noise generator. "I don't know what you've been told, Agent Walker-"

"Sarah."

"_-Sarah_, but I have an Intersect. It's CIA protocol." To his dismay, her grin intensified. She had looked oddly amused throughout his babbling frenzy, but her excitement appeared to have reached new levels after the last sentence. She leaned forward slowly, and, for the strangest of seconds, Chuck thought she was going to kiss him - and, more surprising yet, he thought he might _let_ her, and while Chuck wasn't a prude, he generally wasn't one to make out with complete strangers, let alone women who actually made him think there was a genuine possibility that he'd crap himself - but she just reached for exactly what his hand had been grasping at: the white-noise generator. She flicked it on and leaned back in her chair.

"You don't have an Intersect."

"I do so." Even his protest sounded weak.

"Fact one: you didn't flash on me when I walked in."

His mouth popped open awkwardly. "How... How else would I have known your name?"

"You were reading my file. And according to reports, your Intersect is specialized with name, face, and voice recognition for everyone in the agency. You don't have any reason to look at files, unless you're adding them to the database inside your head."

"I-"

"Fact two: you're Class Two, so it's mandatory to have 2.0 stashed up there. 2.0, in times of extreme duress, should ensure that the babbling is kept to a minimum when you feel like you're under attack, so you're not talking while the Intersect goes to work. But it didn't."

"That's totally irre-"

"And fact three: you're the worst liar I've ever seen."

His mouth clamped shut. Victorious, she leaned back in her camping chair, perfect posture and all. Her black-on-black-on-black ensemble suddenly made her look like a ninja. That's it, he decided. She's a freaking _ninja_.

Because if the Director of the CIA had failed to notice those clues, there really was no other explanation. Chuck had been sloppy, but only marginally so; enough for a ninja to notice, not quite enough for the rest of the CIA to do so.

Finally, after an agonizingly long pause in which she sat patiently, smirking at him, _finally_ he found his voice. "Whuh?" he said intelligently.

Her smirk intensified.

"And I need you to take mine out now."

This time, real, honest-to-god surprise shocked the word out of him: "_Why_?"

The smirk fell. "Can you do it?"

Stubbornness coursed through Chuck. "Tell me why you want it done."

Of course, Chuck had seen enough spy movies and had spoken to enough real-life spies - himself excluded, of course, because the agency refused to actually send him out into the field - to know that they were just as stubborn as him. "_Can you do it?_" she hissed.

"This is going to go on until the apocalypse." He contemplated for a moment, then added: "Zombie apocalypse, maybe, because I can't see either of us backing down for something as petty as seas of fire."

She was probably the first woman ever, Chuck decided, to not look in the least fazed by his tangent. "If you'd just answer my question, we could avoid waiting that long."

And, in a surprising twist of bravery, _Chuck _was the one to smirk and say, "I don't think you're really in the position to argue, here, Sarah."

Her hands curled into fists again. The playful excitement in her face was long gone; she looked terrifying. Chuck had the impression that he should probably have gone to the bathroom before this meeting, just to make sure he didn't have any unfortunate problems.

She half-stood, as though she had the intention to leave, before her eyes closed for a fraction of a second. He could almost see the debate going on in her head, and he contemplated just giving in. Then they opened, and she sat back down, looking almost pitifully like a four-year-old who didn't get her way.

"I don't want to be an agent solely because of the computer inside my head, okay?"

"You don't want to rely on anything."

With one swift turn of her head, she was glaring at him. It kind of reminded Chuck of Gollum. But in a good way.

"I was good _before_they came into the CIA."

"Weren't you eighteen when they went into worldwide production?"

She shrugged in that casual, _What are you trying to tell me? _way that agents had a tendency to develop. Chuck had decided, once, on an off day, that it was his inability to do that particular shrug that ensured he'd be the only field agent in history who had never gone into the field.

"Doesn't matter." A challenging look showed up in her expression, and she added, "1.0 was bad enough, but 2.0? 2.0 is probably the worst thing to have been invented." She sent a smirk his way again, which essentially told him that she knew he was the major creator of the 2.0. Too bad she didn't know everything, he decided - telling him the 2.0 sucked was more of a compliment than the insult she intended.

He considered her for a moment, taking in her very agent-esque appearance. There was something in her eyes, though, and although he'd never been very good at persuasion or knife-yielding or kung fu without the aid of an Intersect, he did know how to read people. So he said: "Yeah, I can remove it."

_He was definitely going to jail for treason._

That's what this was, too; it wasn't directly in Chuck's contract, or anything, ensuring that Intersects remained in all agents' heads. But removing them himself was kind of the same thing as extracting information from agents for use outside of the CIA.

In fact, that's _exactly_ what it was.

And creating the mechanism that could remove the Intersects - creating the mechanism that had removed his _own _Intersect? And could retain all the information in a single five-gig USB?

He'd go to jail. And Ted Roark would continue taking all the credit for something only the Bartowskis had ever been capable of doing. He started sweating a little at the thought - the last five years? Pointless?

But he'd made the mechanism for a reason, and the perfect example of that reason was standing before, headaches and nightmares and near-death experiences and all.

And so, in a rare spurt of bravery, he repeated himself: "I can remove it. But there are some conditions."

* * *

><p>There was a really subtle, almost-invisible (okay, maybe not) shout-out to one of my - and, it looks like, everyone else's - favourite <em>Chuck<em> story on the site. Anyone catch it?


	2. Homely Surprises

Wow, this was _not_ supposed to take me over a month to update, so for the readers of the first chapter, I'm incredibly sorry. I've had kind of a crazy month, but things should be calm enough now so I can update it semi-regularly. I have to thank everyone who read and reviewed the last chapter, however - you guys are awesome, and reminded me that I have to update this sucker. :) While I'm at it, thanks to everyone who has ever reviewed any of my stories - I appreciate it more than I can say, and I don't often get the opportunity to say that with my multitude of one-shots. And congrats to **HHr_Its_what_i_believe** for catching the _What Fates Impose_ shout-out in the first chapter! Everyone loves a good Frea O'Scanlin story, am I right?

So, updates: title was changed slightly, just for aesthetics. This chapter is a little on the shorter side, and contains more Chuck/Sarah dynamic, but a little less actual development in the story. It does, however, offer a little bit of back story about the Intersect creation and Chuck's business in its development.

**Disclaimer: **Still don't own Chuck, the lyrics in the title/below, or Admiral Fallow.

* * *

><p><em>In the same way that your father did.<em>

**SEPTEMBER 14TH, 2007****  
><strong>**5:07 PM****  
><strong>  
>The Intersect Building - a CIA branch - was probably the only thing the government had ever created that didn't look flashy and modern. It had been created to look inconspicuous, but in an <em>actually <em>inconspicuous way; red bricks lined the walls, a delicate coating of tar and dirt and grime around the edges. There was a big, metal door at the front, but the roof was caving in enough that, had it been an actual building and had it not been built that way, some agency or another would have come along to smash it down.

Admittedly, there was a series of interconnected pathways at the base of the building, just under the streets of Los Angeles, California, that led to the other CIA buildings in close proximity. Panic rooms were built into the walls, and it took no less than twenty-five individual passwords to get to Chuck's office alone. And that wasn't counting voice, retina, and fingerprint recognition.

The office had been built in L.A. primarily because - let's be honest - if you're trying to find CIA headquarters, especially the headquarters of the Intersect Expansion Project, and if your company name is Fulcrum, you're looking around Washington, D.C., and the CIA had never been one for obviousness. And Chuck certainly wasn't going to complain; he was barely a half-hour drive from his sister's place, and D.C. had never really been his style.

Even so, as he left the building, there was a bit of unease creeping into his subconscious. The building _was _inconspicuous, enough that Chuck leaving and heading over to his 2004 Sedan didn't turn a single head. The building was even in one of those sketchy neighbourhoods, just outside of downtown L.A., but there was an intimidating air about it so - at least - nobody had tried to steal his car so far.

Once he finally pulled off onto the road, he rubbed his hands on his jeans carefully. He was _sweating_ - and not in the average, normal, let's-go-on-a-date sweating kind of way. He was pretty much bathing in his own sweat.

He rolled the window down.

Chuck had been Intersect-less for two years - a little less, maybe - and although he had only recently learned how to protect himself, aside from the great deal of flailing with which he was familiar, he had never felt more exposed. Sarah Walker, the CIA agent, wanted him to remove her Intersect... and he had said yes.

For the wimpiest field agent in the world, he certainly had some idiocy in him.

The list of problems was endless; there was no way the CIA wouldn't clue in to the fact that their best agent had suddenly become Intersect-less. Faking flashes on people by reading their files beforehand was possible, but faking _kung fu_? Faking split-second decisions that even the best of agents couldn't muster up on their own?

It wasn't possible. And Chuck was definitely going to either Hell or jail for it, depending on whether or not the removal led to Sarah Walker's demise.

Probably both.

Graham wanted to keep Chuck close to headquarters - either so he could get to the building in case of emergency more quickly, or because it could ensure almost round-the-clock protection, he wasn't sure - so his apartment was barely a five-minute drive away. By the time he pulled up and parked the car in the garage, he was so drenched in sweat that it looked as though he'd been working out.

(Which obviously wouldn't work as a cover.)

Although it wasn't really the best situation, being forced to live in a small apartment not five minutes from work and more than twenty away from his sister's, it really was a nice place. It might not have had the quaint charm Ellie's did, with a fountain in the front and a courtyard lined by plants, but it was cute. Sort of bachelor-pad-esque, you could say.

Chuck, however, did not take the time to acknowledge the sleek, modern décor or the other tenants or even the elevator; he just turned around and booked it up the stairs.

_I'm going to Hell. I'm going to Hell, and then to jail, and I'm going to get the 'best of the best' killed. And the CIA is never going to let me outside agai-_

Realizing the sweat was _definitely _coating his shirt, he pushed the thought aside and, with shaking hands, opened his apartment door.

Fact was, Sarah's face once Chuck had said he could do it was probably worth whatever pain he was going to go through to get it done. Her reasons were a little dubious, but he'd been working with agents - CIA and otherwise - long enough to know that they held secrets, but that it was probably for your own protection. An "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you" type situation, if you will.

Once inside, he flicked the light switch and made his way to the kitchen with the sole intention of grabbing a beer. And _then _he'd go change - maybe not the best of plans, but certainly more logical than doing the opposite, he decided.

Maybe his brain was a little rattled.

And, okay, maybe her reaction to his three conditions hadn't exactly gone according to plan. Primarily because, despite being the most secret-addled CIA agent to ever grace him with her company, her reaction to him saying, "But I can't tell you here. We'll have to meet later," had not been ideal.

But whatever.

Grabbing his beer from the fridge - which was, no surprise, pretty much sparse - he made his way to his bedroom and opened the door with his shoulder, struggling to simultaneously open the can.

Once inside, he flicked on the light switch.

And - to his utter embarrassment - he shrieked.

**SEPTEMBER 14TH, 2007****  
><strong>**5:21 PM**

"Okay, so goal for future meetings: let's try to have minimal screaming, okay?"

Sitting in a bar stool across the counter from him, Sarah smirked. "You don't always have women waiting in your bedroom when you get home?"

Chuck turned around to hide his blush. He opened the fridge absently, leaning down to grab a frozen pizza from the bottom shelf. Turning back to face her, he shrugged. "'How you doin'?' doesn't work quite as well for as advertised, unfortunately. Maybe I need to work on the smile."

Her expression didn't change, save for one eyebrow gracefully disappearing behind her bangs.

"It's, uh- _Friends_? Joey Tribbiani?"

A small shudder passed through her shoulders - just a little twinge - and he realized that she was trying to suppress a laugh. He decidedly changed the subject.

"Frozen pizza okay with you? My sister hasn't been around for a mandatory check-up in a couple weeks, so I'm sadly lacking in the grocery department. I also wasn't, um, _expecting_ company for this evening. Otherwise I would've cooked up something extravagant."

"Extravagant, huh?"

Chuck chanced a brief glance at her as he moved to put the pizza box in the trash, and saw that the single eyebrow had been joined by a second - skepticism, if the Farm had taught him anything.

"I make mean ravioli, thank you very much." A beat, and then: "From a can; Campbell's has never led me wrong."

"Ah, I see why the women flock to you."

"Everyone loves a man who can cook."

The smirk reappeared. "Your use of the word 'everyone' concerns me, Chuck. Wouldn't want people to think you're a little on the cocky side."

"I hear confidence in a man is endearing."

She picked up a pen lying next to the sink, leaning over the counter to do so, and began absently playing with it, tapping one end against the marble. Her face was suddenly serious. "It's not," she murmured, eyes on the pen. Silence filled the apartment.

It gave Chuck the opportunity to look around. He wasn't a messy kind of guy, but there was a jacket folded over the chair in the living room attached to the kitchen, and some dishes in the sink, and his bed was made, but it was so haphazardly done that you couldn't really call it that. Ellie would've murdered him, had she seen it, with Sarah in it or without.

Jill was a distant memory, now, and Chuck hadn't been on any notable dates since then. He certainly had never had a girl - woman - in his apartment before, let alone waiting for him in his room without any indication of a broken window or a picked lock. He didn't even know how she'd found his address; it was beyond classified, buried underneath piles of high-up-clearance-only files. He doubted the President himself could have found the apartment.

Post-shriek, however, it had seemed only logical to graciously invite her into the kitchen and offer her food. After all, they had agreed to meet later on; the meeting place - and time - had not been specified. Chuck had never _really _been one to hash out details.

The _tap-tap-tap _of the pen in Sarah's hand brought him back to reality. She was off in another world, too, vacant expression and all. Absently, as a means to fill the silence, Chuck moved to the iPod docking station next to the microwave, turning his back on Sarah and her pen, and flipped it on. Hall & Oates' _Private Eyes _filled the kitchen.

"So," he began again, clearing his throat nervously. Even without crazy/excited-psycho-ninja-face on, Sarah Walker was an incredibly intimidating person. The relaxed atmosphere of a decidedly spacious, albeit small, apartment was marginally better than the cramped office Chuck had to put up with, however. "You want to tell me why you're here? I know we, uh, didn't exactly _settle _on a meeting time, but I figured, with you knowing where my office is, and all..." He let the sentence hang.

She glanced up from the pen. "Your apartment is secure, right?"

He leaned back against the counter, far more graceful in his own home than at work. "As far as I know. I sweep daily. Some... erm... _obstacles _stopped me from doing it when I got home today, though," he added, turning his head at a slight angle. She smiled at that.

"I figured. Considering your apartment is nonexistent in the CIA database, which I'm _pretty sure _is not a luxury granted to every agent."

_Aha. _"And you found my address by...?"

"Bryce."

"Oh."

_BEEP. _The noise rose from out of the oven, permeating the thick silence between them as Chuck thought about this revelation. With a start, he jumped, ramming his head into the light fixture above him. He simultaneously grabbed at the injury site and hopped around for oven mitts... only to see Sarah, smirk back in place.

"The, ah, oven- Pizza... Food's, uh, soup's on," he rambled, and the smirk only intensified.

**SEPTEMBER 14TH****  
><strong>**5:47 PM**

At Sarah's insistence, Chuck swept the apartment for bugs before settling in and grabbing a slice of pepperoni pizza for himself. He grabbed the bar-stool next to Sarah and settled in, glancing at her from the corner of his eye as they ate.

She looked the same as she had this afternoon, but he'd been so distracted with her request - not to mention her finding out that Chuck had removed his Intersect - that he hadn't had a proper chance to look. Bryce's letters since leaving the Farm had mentioned her in passing, and he particularly emphasized her beauty, but Chuck had long ago decided that you couldn't really call someone beautiful until you knew they deserved it.

Outside of her terrifying persona, she had a quiet, cautious side. She was fiercely stubborn - Chuck knew that only from their encounter this afternoon - and was most assuredly hiding something about her dislike of the Intersect. It was ruining her brain, just like it was every other agent... but something told him she wouldn't mind the headaches if the thing itself was perfect.

With a quick sideways glance, she caught him looking at her. Mouth half-full of pizza, she swallowed before leaning back against the chair and, ever so casually, away from him.

"So these conditions," she began, chancing another pizza from the still-hot pan. "You want to tell me what they are?"

Chuck shrugged. "Nothing major. Just... in the event you ever meet her, you can't talk to my sister about anything, that sort of thing."

She was skeptical. "You said three."

Fair enough. He dropped his shoulder. "Okay, there's one. Uh, two: you prove to me that you can deal without it."

For a second, confusion crossed her features. "Why would you say three conditions if you only actually had one?"

"'One condition' is too ominous-sounding if it's just about family, you know? Besides, three conditions is like superhero law."

Sarah kind of gave Chuck the impression that she had no idea how to take him. He wasn't entirely certain how she had put up with Bryce for so long, in that case. "Well, I can handle myself fine, thanks."

Chuck's stubbornness cropped up again. "You'll have to prove it," he said simply.

She scowled. "What's the third?"

Considering he really _wasn't_ prepared, Chuck mulled that one over, taking the time to really chew a piece of pizza. There were a lot of unspoken conditions, of course, but he was fairly certain that Sarah knew the consequences of those ones well enough to not have to vocalize them; after all, if she announced that she no longer had the Intersect, she'd be in a lot of crap, too.

He settled on something logical. "You have to stay safe without the Intersect, got it?"

She looked altogether surprised at that one, and silence loomed ominously across the kitchen and she took it in. Only the sounds of their chewing and the music wafted through the air.

"So you're Ted Roark's son," she finally said, and it was almost conversational, the way she said it. Chuck caught the edge in her voice, though, and although the words did make him choke on his pizza - he coughed attractively - he locked that piece of information in his brain for later.

"Wha...? No, I'm Stephen Bartowski's son."

"But Ted Roark created the Intersect." And there was the edge again: disdain entered her tone at the word _Intersect_.

It's not as though Chuck could argue with the truth, he supposed, so he paused for a long second, cocking his head to one side. "I think it's time for a history lesson," he finally said.

Leaving the fresh pizza to cool on the counter, Chuck hopped off the stool and gestured with his head for Sarah to follow him into his bedroom. With the lights now on, he tried very hard not to think about Sarah in his bedroom... and around his multitude of sci-fi movie-related posters, his Chewie action figure, and the Post-Its stuck to his computer monitor. He thought about sneaking a glance at her to check out her reaction, but thought better of it: as attractive as it was, when he blushed...

The room was, at least – unmade bed aside - clean. Skirting around his bed, he walked to the wall opposite the doorway and gently removed the tape sticking his _Tron _poster to the wall.

"What are you...?" Sarah began, her voice cutting through the peaceful singing of Hall & Oates drifting from the kitchen. Once Chuck laid the poster on the bed, however, she stopped talking.

Pictured lined the back of the poster. Scrawled words underneath each picture connected to each other through arrows, and at the centre - very prominently - rested some sort of blueprint.

"This..." Chuck presented proudly, "Is everything there is to know about the Intersect."  
><strong><br>**SEPTEMBER 14TH**  
><strong>6:19 PM<strong>**

"Okay," Chuck began, pointing at a picture in the top left corner. Sarah, perched carefully on the edge of his bed, peered over to look. "The Intersect went into wide release by Roark Instruments in 2000, right? Turn of the century, people were looking for something big and awesome. It was one of the first pieces of groundbreaking technology to have bypassed government testing first, so the government didn't start using it for their agents until after 9/11."

Sarah looked less than amused.

"Look, Bartow- _Chuck_. I went through History at the Farm, okay? I know Intersect history. I need you to get mine out of my head."

"You know government history. This is a... shall we say _reloaded_-" He smirked at the word. "-version of that same history."

Though the eyebrow - the damn _eyebrow_ - raised again, and he seriously considered running off to hide in a corner from the way her face clouded, he pressed on. "Okay, so that was the 1.0. By now, we all know that pretty much every American has a 1.0, and it headed out to _l'Europe _later that year, not to mention Canada and Japan. It pretty much nullified the education system, right? I mean, to become a doctor, all you have to do is take a new upload, and everything you need it downloaded right into your brain."

Sarah's impatience was evident, but Chuck was growing more and more excited.

"So a collaborative effort from Roark, the CIA, the NSA, DEA, Secret Service, _everything_ was done for the creation of the 2.0, which enabled the _abilities _of people. You talk to Roark, and he'll say it's all about enhancing the abilities that are already there - stimulating the parts of the brain that haven't really been stimulated. But whatever it is..." Chuck took a deep, cleansing, dramatic breath, "Whatever it is, the fact remains that it eliminates uniqueness."

For the first time since the pen-tapping, Sarah's mask dropped for a fraction of a second, revealing something akin to surprise. "Wait- I thought you liked the Intersect?"

"The 2.0 is a little too _1984_for me. You can't have talents if everyone else just downloads the same ones."

He watched as she processed the information, trying not to notice that she was now sitting very nearly cross-legged on his bed, engrossed by the lesson. She tilted her head to the side to glance at the poster, and he caught a quick waft of her hair. Gulping, he silently made up a chant of _deadlyninja..._

"And what does this have to do with Stephen Bartowski?"

This was Chuck's favourite part of the story.

"In 1997, Roark Instruments was kind of failing. Ted Roark wasn't even a legitimate competitor for Bill Gates - he was only selling about 6,000 computers to hipsters every year. So he approached my dad, and... well..." Never one for (real) build-up, Chuck just blurted out: "He stole the blueprints for the Intersect from his office in '99. The next month, one Stephen J. Bartowski was murdered."

He blurted that last part out quickly, like it wasn't a legitimate sad thing anymore. Sarah, to her credit, only tensed up and leaned back a fraction of a millimetre, her eyes clouding over with uncertainty. There was a good chance that she had no idea how to deal with this sort of tragedy, or if she did, she certainly didn't want to.

Silence descended upon them while she opened and closed her mouth, glancing at the door as though she desperately wanted to get out of the apartment and away from the awkwardness. Curiosity apparently won out, however, when she spoke again, her voice low and uncertain. "And you came onto the project...?"

This time, Chuck smirked, pointing at the sheet in the centre of the poster. "When I stole the blueprints right back."

To his surprise, no shock registered on her face. "So you worked on the 2.0."

"Just on security." His smirk, this time, was triumphant. "Why do you think it malfunctions?"


	3. The Wrath of Sarah Walker

Although I probably can't actually guarantee it, this _should_ be the last set-up chapter. We're hopefully actually going to get some action and missions in the upcoming chapters, and Casey will of course be making a semi-permanent appearance soon. So that's coming up. I'm also hoping to crack these chapters out a little more quickly, but I'm working three jobs at the moment, so it's dependent on that.

For this chapter, I have my new beta, **mxpw**, to thank. I know he just won the Awesome Award for best beta editor, and it was well deserved; he really was fantastic with this chapter, so full credit for anything awesome in it goes to him.

**Disclaimer: **I continue to not own Chuck. Lyrics/title still goes to Admiral Fallow's "Squealing Pigs."

* * *

><p><em>Throw a stone upon the river's lid. <em>**  
><strong>

**SEPTEMBER 14TH, 2007**  
><strong>6:26 PM<strong>

For the briefest of seconds, her entire body went still, hands clenched into fists and eyes wide. She recovered quickly, however, her mouth opening uncertainly. "What?"

She sounded so genuinely affronted that, for the first time, Chuck considered his words before responding, mulling over any reasons she may have for being offended. "I put the glitch in?" he said cautiously, the sentence coming off as more of a question than he'd intended.

Her face unfroze before the rest of her body did, each feature slowly crowding together in fury. "You put the glitch in," she repeated, and although the rest of her had now warmed slightly, her voice remained as cool as he had ever heard it. Anything resembling the easiness with which they had just conversed disappeared. He cleared his throat uncomfortably, leaning away slightly.

"Yep," he said, and, to his embarrassment, his voice raised an octave.

He could tell she was upset. Even had he not grown up with Ellie's occasional mood swings, Sarah's barely-contained fury was so apparent that Chuck would have had to be genuinely oblivious to not notice. _Why_ she was so upset was beyond Chuck, however. He had never confessed to his purposeful involvement in the two-point-oh's malfunction before, but he had also never encountered someone whose distaste for the Intersect rivalled his own in any way. If anything, he had figured she would be pleased.

She was not.

"So all the _crap_ the Intersects have gone through is _your_ fault?" She finally stood, moving around to allow herself room for pacing. After walking several lengths of the room, she turned to Chuck, moving so quickly that he had time only to blink as she shoved her face in his. "The glitch in the two-point-oh is _ruining lives,_ Chuck, and for what?" He opened his mouth to answer, but she beat him to the punch. "So you can avenge your father? Take down Roark Instruments?"

She turned around and stalked out of the room. He could hear her moving around the hallway, presumably grabbing the coat he had hung up for her. It took a second for her words to sink in, and when they did, it was indignation, not some sort of messed up bravery, which propelled his body after her.

"You think I did this out of _selfishness_?" he called after her as he joined her in the hallway. "It's okay to have it in the CIA, where you need everyone at the top of their abilities to perform properly. But in the real world? God, Sarah, you hate the two-point-oh as much as I do. It would literally ruin our society."

He could only see the side of her face, standing furiously next to her as she tried to yank her coat off its hanger, but he was still able to see it cloud. "It doesn't mean that I want everyone to suffer to prevent it from happening."

"_Suffer_?" Chuck scoffed, half-reaching a hand out to grab her shoulder, before he thought about it. His hand dropped. "It's built so _headaches_ crop up every once in a while."

She faced the door to his apartment, ensuring that her face was turned away from him, before saying, her voice barely above a whisper, "I don't think this arrangement is going to work, Agent Bartowski."

**SEPTEMBER 15TH, 2007  
>8:42 AM<strong>

"Chuck."

Oh, god.

Chuck took a hasty sip of his coffee, trying to down the whole mug in one go. It scalded his throat on the way down and he gasped for a second, chancing a glance at himself in the glass of the window pane. Dark circles surrounded his eyes and he tried very hard not to compare himself to a zombie; his curls, unwashed in an attempt to sleep in a bit, lay flat against his skull; and even a distinctly Italian heritage could not have hidden the pallor in his features.

His appearance did not, apparently, go unnoticed by one Bryce Larkin. Leaning casually against the doorway, he took a (cool) sip of his coffee, smirking a little bit. "What the hell happened to you, buddy?" Bryce demanded, brushing off a piece of imaginary lint from his own suit.

"Didn't sleep." Groaning again, Chuck finished off the cup with one last sip.

Bryce finally entered the office. "You look like crap."

Chuck tried very hard not to compare his own hair to Bryce's perfectly coiffed mane. He'd been attempting to do the same thing with every aspect of Bryce since their freshman year at Stanford; so far, it had been an unsuccessful endeavour.

"Feel like it, too." And it was not a lie.

After his confession, Sarah had stalked off. Before he had the chance to further explain himself—and he _did_ have good reasons, even if they had been vocalized weakly the night before—she was out of his apartment and speeding down the road in her Porsche. Chuck, watching from the window, had tried unsuccessfully to avoid thinking about his Sedan.

The government certainly didn't pay him_ that _well.

And Chuck, being Chuck, had let his mind take over for the next seven hours, even long after he lay in bed, trying to sort out whether her fury was justified. He had spent the final four hours of fitful sleep trying to determine the best way to contact one Sarah Walker so he could explain himself, without, you know, stalking her..

Bryce, apparently, had taken it upon himself to solve that problem.

"Sleep," Bryce said, punctuating the word with a sip of his own coffee for dramatic tension, "is man's best friend. But hey, buddy, it's Saturday, right? You're going to Ellie's for dinner?"

Ah, working on a Saturday. Every man's dream, Chuck thought bitterly. But he brushed the thought aside to nod at Bryce as the other man grabbed a camp chair and sat down. "Yeah. Ellie's planning on making her famous lasagna, which means—"

"She's going to talk to you about getting a new girlfriend," Bryce finished for him. The two grinned at each other for a minute. "Well, hey, I have an idea to get her off your back."

"Does it involve a Jedi Mind Trick? 'Cause I haven't quite mastered the art yet."

Bryce laughed at that in that awkward way people do when they're trying to broach an important topic, Chuck noticed with a grimace. It was way too early to think, and the coffee was not doing its job. He took another sip nonetheless before remembering that he had already finished it. Childishly, he glared down at the mug. "Not quite. Ah... why don't you bring Sarah to dinner with you?"

If this were a sitcom, Chuck decided, this would be the ideal point for a spit-take. As it were, Chuck had no actual coffee in his mouth, so instead of spitting anything out, he took the opportunity to choke on his own saliva. It was not a pretty sight. "I- wha?"

Bryce got his intense face on, the mask of seriousness clouding the amicable expression. "She got back to the hotel last night and seemed... I don't know, out of it, I guess. She's getting worse, and this whole virus-thing—"

"Glitch," Chuck clarified.

Bryce grinned at that, Stanford-esque familiarity returning between the two of them. "_Glitch _in the two-point-oh is really messing her up. I need you to... I don't know, observe her?"

At the thought of observing Sarah Walker, Chuck tried very hard not to think about Sarah's blonde hair. Or her legs. "So you want me to bring her to Ellie's to... ?"

"She gets a headache every couple hours. Her Intersect also has capabilities for—I kid you not—_everything. _Watch her flash." Bryce, in that way of his, ran a hand through his hair.

"You think she'll flash at my sister's apartment?"

"_Everything_, buddy," Bryce reemphasized. "She'll find something."

Chuck blinked. "And you think she'll agree to... go to my sister's apartment? With me?"

At that, Bryce shrugged. "Get Graham to order it. It's for the safety of the Intersect."

Chuck huffed out a breath in something similar to a laugh. "No offense, Bryce, but something tells me that nobody can order Sarah around."

Bryce acknowledged that with a dip of his head.

Chuck ran a hand over his face, exhausted. The promise of a headache was pressing against his temple, and the coffee, damn it, was still not kicking in. "So... let's just, uh... clarify: you want me to invite your girlfriend on a date?"

At that, Bryce laughed. It was the normal Bryce-laugh, the one from college, but Chuck had enough training to detect a slight edge to it. "Sarah Walker," Bryce began once the laughter died down, "has made it _very _clear that she is not my girlfriend." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees in a way oddly reminiscent of Director Graham the day before. "Word of advice, buddy: do not fall for Sarah."__  
><em>_  
><strong>SEPTEMBER 15TH, 2007<strong>  
><strong>6:08 PM<strong>

Sarah Walker could legitimately not have looked less pleased to be anywhere near Chuck. At her insistence, she had driven to Ellie's place, and although Chuck had probably never been that fast in any sort of vehicle, he had tried very hard not to look panicked the entire drive. He was not successful.

She parked the car with a scowl, refusing, even now, to look at him. He was entirely grateful that he was not there when Bryce had suggested that she come with him tonight. He really had no idea how Bryce had convinced her, but Chuck had found her sitting outside his apartment at 5:30 sharp, looking as though she very much wanted to gouge her own eyeballs out.

The expression still had yet to change.

They sat in silence for a minute, and he took it as an opportunity to explain himself. "Look, uh, Sarah—"

She promptly cut him off. "Nope." Without waiting for his response, she opened her door and stalked off in the general direction of the apartment complex. He moved to follow her, stumbling a little as his jacket caught in the door when he tried to close it.

He tried again. "I just—"

"Not interested."

Jogging a little to catch up to her—and to steer her towards Ellie's apartment—he kept going. "It's not... I'm not some guy out to get the government, if that's what you're thinking. I... uh... it's a... complicated situation."

She turned to him, then, her face finally revealing some of her contained fury. "I. Don't. Care." Chuck had led her straight to Ellie's door, so with that sentiment completed, she knocked on the door.

A moment of awkward silence later, one Eleanor Faye Bartowski swung the door open. "Chuck, you are _nine _minutes lat— Oh." Ellie, a thin layer of flour left unnoticed on one shoulder, stood stunned for a minute, mouth slightly agape, staring at Sarah. "Hi," she finally continued, once she recovered.

Chuck rushed to her aid. "Hey, El, this is Sarah," he offered up, gesturing at the aforementioned woman with his consistent awkwardness, and as much flourish as he could muster.

Ellie's mouth closed, and the politeness ingrained in both Bartowski siblings—with a healthy dose of enthusiasm only Ellie could muster—came out. "Sarah! Hi, sorry, it's so nice to meet you!" She rushed forward to offer Sarah a hug, and Sarah, looking overwhelmed, accepted it after a moment's pause. "I've heard exactly _nothing_ about you, but that's the fault of my idiot brother there." Still grinning widely, Ellie smacked Chuck on the shoulder.

As she ushered Sarah into the apartment, Ellie turned around to give Chuck a hug, hissing into his ear, "Oh my god, I'm so _proud_ of you!"

He was not entirely sure how to take that.

Turning around with an easy pirouette, she traipsed toward Sarah, who had drifted toward the living room. A moment later, a very male, very booming voice drifted through the hallways. "Hey, babe, is Chuck here?"

"Yes!" Ellie shouted back, looking at Sarah triumphantly. "And he brought a guest."

A very tall, very blond man poked his head around the corner of the hallway to Chuck's right, a grin on his face. "Awesome," he offered as he joined Ellie at Sarah's side. For the second time in as many minutes, Sarah was forced to endure a bone-crushing hug, and the whole gouging-her-eyes-out expression returned.

The man turned his attentions to Chuck, still standing awkwardly in the doorway. "There's my bro-in-law!" he shouted, walking over to Chuck to offer him the same hug. Unfortunately, he also thought it would be a good idea to lift Chuck straight off the ground. Chuck disagreed. He knew better than to squirm, however.

"Hey, Devon," he offered up weakly once Devon put him down. Chuck's brother-in-law glanced back at Sarah briefly and smirked.

"The Bartowskis have a thing for blondes, it looks like. Awesome." Turning back to Chuck, he stuck out a fist. "Lock it out, bro."

Chuck (very politely) decided that it would be best to turn the offer down.

As Devon joined Ellie in the kitchen to finish off both the lasagna and whatever dessert Ellie had decided to make involving flour, Chuck finally closed the door and crossed the threshold to join Sarah.

"That," he whispered conspiratorially, "would be Captain Awesome."

For the first time that evening, a genuine smile crossed Sarah's face, and it was so different from the polite one she'd offered Ellie that Chuck berated himself for even comparing the two. "I wonder why," she countered.

"Sorry about my sister and her husband. They're... uh... a little overwhelming."

"Newlyweds?"

He snorted. "Yeah, but that definitely has _not_ changed their demeanor."

A wicked gleam showed up in Sarah's eye, and the smirk with which he'd become familiar to the night before returned. "You're not always around. You don't know that."

He opened his mouth to protest—he did, after all, know his sister extremely well—but he finally got the gist of what Sarah was implying and turned bright red. "Oh, god," Chuck groaned, fighting off the mental picture. "Did you really have to put that in my head?"

"Just giving you some perspective, Agent Bartowski."

Ah. Agent Bartowski. They were back to that.

**SEPTEMBER 15TH, 2007  
>7:00 PM<strong>

Although Bryce had assured Chuck it was every two hours, it took only one and a half before one of the headaches hit.

Unless Chuck was very much mistaken, Sarah had been enjoying herself up until that point. When supper was served, she had taken one bite and had melted on the spot, complimenting Ellie (in a sincere way, Chuck decided) profusely. She had bypassed the actual are-you-in-a-relationship question smoothly, long before Chuck's nervous babble could cut through, considering neither actually had a cover for her presence. She told the story of their meeting with an affectionate (fake) grin, even though they had only met the day before.

Ellie was positively beaming.

Sarah had even listened to the stories of Ellie and Devon's wedding with laughs and oohing at the appropriate places. She did, however, turn down their offer for a glass of wine.

And it was then that the headache showed up.

Ellie and Devon were in the kitchen, and Sarah glanced down sharply, her fists tightening around the fork in her grasp. If not for the smallest of cringes that came and went with the briefest of flashes, Chuck would not have noticed.

"Hey, you okay?" he murmured, out of Ellie and Devon's earshot as they moved around the kitchen behind Chuck and Sarah.

A sort of grunt escaped her mouth before she replied, and even her words (well, word) came out a little strained. "Fine."

He could see the muscles in her jaw work as Sarah tried her best to avoid letting the headache show.

"Did... Did you, I don't know, flash on something?" He was trying very hard to work out where to put his hands to comfort her or to help out or _something_, but nowhere seemed okay so he just dropped his hands awkwardly into his lap.

For a brief second, she opened her mouth to tell him to either—Chuck couldn't decide—tell him to go screw himself, or to say that she was fine. He was leaning towards the former as the irritation in her expression grew, but finally she just grumbled, her voice low and frustrated, "Lasagna recipe."

"You flashed on the recipe for the Bartowski _lasagna?"_

The headache was apparently lessening a little bit, because her next sentence came with verbs and everything. "_I_ don't know how the Intersect works."

Chuck sat there slack-jawed for a moment, taking it in, as one of her eyes twitched—the second indication that she was in any sort of pain. "You have the most _incredible _Intersect," he breathed, his eyes flickering up to her forehead and back as though he would be able to see the workings of the Intersect telepathically.

"Top of the line," she grunted.

"Does this happen often?" he demanded, his hand finally choosing a place to rest as he put it on her shoulder almost soothingly. The faintest of squeals—masked by a hand over the mouth—was emitted from somewhere behind them.

"I'm fine."

"Sarah." His voice was as stern as he could make it, and he wasn't entirely sure it was convincingly so. "I can't help if I don't—"

"Chuck!"

The cry, unfortunately, did not come from anyone in his family. Or Sarah. Instead, a rather short, _very _bearded man tackled Chuck in a bear hug that should have been exactly like Devon's, but was not, primarily because Chuck was sitting down. For an awkward moment, Morgan settled for burrowing his head into Chuck's shoulder, one arm wrapped around the back of his chair, the other, across Chuck's chest.

"Morgan?" Chuck said, once he decided the moment had gone on a few seconds too long. At that, Ellie's head peered around the corner, Devon hot on her heels. She grimaced when she saw the man clutching on to Chuck, so neither noticed Sarah's unfortunate cringe at Morgan's shout.

Her focus entirely on the bearded man (or buffoon, as she was surely calling him in her head), Ellie scowled. "Morgan, how did you...?"

Finally, Morgan dropped Chuck, reaching out to offer Ellie a similar hug. She stepped back, holding up her left hand and her wedding ring like a force field. Crushed, Morgan stopped. "The Morgan door, my dearest Ellie, is always open for its namesake."

Ellie did not look impressed at that revelation. "Morgan, I locked it."

Chuck stood, trying his very best to hide Sarah and her headache while shielding Morgan from Ellie's wrath. With his eyes, he tried to convey the message that Morgan should not respond to that statement, but— "I mastered the art of lock-picking in the tenth grade, El."

Chuck groaned.

"You _picked the lock._"

"It's Saturday night. Chuck's here for supper, so I figured I'd drop by and have a serious—" Morgan whirled around to face Chuck. "—discussion about why we haven't hung out in _months_, man."

Chuck's childhood best friend put on a very hurt expression, and although Chuck was irritated at the guy on Ellie's behalf, he did feel bad. Unfortunately, the CIA wasn't particularly kind when it came to giving Chuck free time, especially with the glitches in the 2.0 and the worldwide release due for January. He was lucky that these Saturday nights had been outlined in Chuck's contract, or else Ellie would have killed him a long time ago.

The faintest of sighs emanated from behind Chuck, and he whipped his head around to see Sarah, still cringing, but looking mildly less pale. "Morgan, this is Sarah," he offered, trying his best to change the subject. Behind Morgan, Ellie glowered, but Captain Awesome, as always, looked incredibly pleased. "And Sarah, this is Morgan, my, uh—"

"Life partner," Morgan answered for him.

Sarah raised an eyebrow at Chuck. He shrugged.

Her knuckles were white from clutching the fork, however, and Chuck finally clued in that the headache was not going away anytime soon. An unfortunate rock dug into his stomach, and he realized, for the first time, that while he had his reasons for adding the glitch, there were some side effects that Chuck couldn't acknowledge guilt-free. He grimaced apologetically at her before turning back to Ellie, Morgan, and Devon.

Ellie's face told him that if Morgan didn't leave in the next thirty seconds, she'd have some unfortunate homicide charges on her shoulders. The joy on her face at her younger brother inviting a woman over for the traditional Bartowski Saturday Night Dinner long gone, she was beyond the point of caring what happened, so long as Morgan Guillermo Grimes left her apartment.

Although it probably wasn't the solution she was looking for, Chuck was suddenly grateful that Morgan had showed up, so he could usher Sarah out of Ellie's apartment without a lot of explanation and without trying to bypass Ellie's incredible persuasion skills. "And Morgan, it's great to see you, man, but Sarah—uh, Sarah has some work to do early tomorrow morning."

Ellie grinned at that, checking her watch and glowing in Chuck's general direction. Captain Awesome, an identical smile on his face, half-brought up his hand for a high-five. Only Morgan, however, didn't take the (albeit untruthful) hint.

"Chuck, man, it's only like seven-thirty."

Ignoring Morgan for the moment, Chuck reached down and grabbed on to Sarah's wrist, gently loosening her grip on the fork. Her grip promptly shifted to his hand, and he almost fell to his knees in pain. God, he was an idiot; if Chuck was in this much pain from her (okay, kind of manlike) grip, how much was her headache causing her?

He found his mouth moving without conscious thought, answering Morgan as Sarah stood up, offering her own version of a friendly smile. "I know, buddy, and it's really awesome to see you, and I'm sorry I—_we_ have to leave so soon after you dropped by, but—"

Sarah, to his surprise, interrupted him, and although he could detect the smallest of edges to her tone, he doubted anyone else could. "I'm really sorry, Morgan, but it was nice meeting you," she said, offering her brightest (fake) smile. Morgan stood for a second, stunned, before bowing down.

"Of course, m'lady," he said, gesturing towards the door with flourish.

Sarah smirked triumphantly at Chuck, before her eye twitched—just a little bit—a second time.

**SEPTEMBER 15TH  
>7:34 PM<strong>

Once Chuck and Sarah had said goodbye to Ellie and Devon, and once Morgan had crawled back out of the window from whence he came, they both sat in the Porsche. Chuck had offered to drive, but Sarah's glare had quieted that sentiment immediately. Now, sitting in the passenger seat, he tried his best to assess the situation.

"So when you flash..."

"I'm fine, Agent Bartowski," she repeated for something like the fifth time, wiping her hands on her jeans. The shirt she had chosen to wear for the occasion—something blue, sort of flirty—finally caught his attention, but he decided that it was now a little late to comment on it. He decided instead to finish the thought from inside Ellie's apartment, before Morgan's interruption.

"Sarah, I can't... Nothing will help if you don't... I don't know, help me out, I guess? I just—"

"I don't want _help,_" she spat, irritation clouding her face again. "I need you to remove it."

"And _I_ need you to tell me what's going on, so I know which version you have."

_That_ certainly caught her attention. She shifted her gaze to him again, and although he certainly didn't know her all that well, he thought he saw something akin to the pain she was trying her very best to hide. "The two-point-oh."

He grinned at that. "I know, but there are different versions of the two-point-oh, right? Like, mine was facial recognition-oriented and included, but was not limited to, blueprints for the original Intersect and a full list of Intersect types. Yours..." His hands began to move animatedly as he spoke, "I bet yours includes tactical training, probably target practice, kung fu, maybe some shotokan for leg strengthening."

Her expression softened. "Knife-throwing," she offered up. Chuck's eyes widened.

"_Knife-throwing_?" he breathed, hands flying up to his face. "Oh my god, you do have the Morpheus." She glanced at him, and he elaborated. "It's what we—that is, the analysts and I—named the most developed Intersect. It's, uh, a reference to The Matrix—you know, the Intersect with which we'll find the perfect Intersect?" Her face remained blank. "Never mind, not important."

They sat in silence, an apparently common thing for the two of them. Finally, Sarah said, "Yeah. Every time I flash."

Chuck sat up straighter. "Is the headache in your eye, or in the back of your head?"

"It varies."

"Does it hit your temple at all?"

She shook her head at that, her hands falling on the steering wheel. Absurdly, she looked relieved to be able to say no to that one.

Leaning her head back against the headrest, she briefly closed her eyes.

**SEPTEMBER 15H, 2007  
>8:12 PM<strong>

The headache was still present—Chuck could see the smallest of cringes if her eyes observed anything that was not directly in front of her—but Sarah had put the car into drive, anyway. As she pulled into his apartment complex in downtown L.A., Chuck felt the guilt build again in the pit of his stomach.

"Look, Sarah..." he started, and gave her ample time to cut him off before he pressed on. "I put the glitches in for a reason, but I, uh, clearly didn't really think it through."

Her glare told him he had it right.

He looked at her sincerely as she parked, his hand falling back onto her shoulder. "I, um... Well, I'm really sorry that you've been in so much pain because of it. I just... I figured that if I put the glitch in, they wouldn't release it, you know? They'd put the 1.0 back in everyone's head, even the agents."

"They didn't."

"No. So... I have to come up with another way to stop the 2.0 from going into wide release, because this... clearly isn't the right way to do it."

She still did not look amused. "Because it's not working."

He shook his head at that. "Because I didn't realize how bad the headaches were."

She acknowledged that with a nod. Of its own volition—Chuck had no idea why—his hand drifted from her shoulder to her face. Her eyes widened in surprise, and she moved, just a little bit. His hand stayed there anyway. Somewhere in the recesses of his brain, he was panicking, appalled by the balls he didn't know he had. "Look, I didn't think this through. I... Give me three weeks. Train up. Refer to our agreement if you can't remember why," he said with a smirk., "And I'll take out your Intersect."

His hand fell away, and he reached for the door. Stepping out—gracefully, to his surprise—he moved to close the door behind him, but Sarah's voice stopped him. "Thanks."

"My pleasure," he said sincerely. He turned back and poked his head back into the car, a question suddenly in mind. "Hey, how did Bryce convince you to come tonight?"

She smiled again, and it was that genuine one. "He told me you'd help me with..." Her hands flailed, "All of this."

Chuck looked at her compassionately. "He was right."

"And when that didn't work, he told me it was under the Director's orders." She cocked her head to one direction, assessing his reaction. He didn't really have one, except for his smile falling in the slightest.

"Well... I'm glad you came, anyway."

"Me, too."

The doomed silence descended upon them again, but it was more amicable than uncomfortable. Finally, Chuck gestured behind him with his thumb. "I'm just going to—"

"Yeah."

"Goodnight, Sarah."

She looked down, and he would have thought it was almost shyly, if he didn't know better. "Good night, Chuck."


End file.
